


The G-Rated Con

by manic_intent



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Awkwardness, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Humour, M/M, Michael's very many hang-ups, Post-Game, Spoilers for full game, That postgame fic following Trevor's Mrs Philips quest, and Franklin pretends to be their strangely well-adjusted lovechild, and Mrs Philips scares the hell out of Michael, because reasons, he's going to need even more therapy after this, in which Michael and Trevor pretend to be dating, what is his life, yes that one about the van
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dead silence settles over the kitchen for a breathless moment, then Michael explodes. "<i>No</i>. Abso-fucking-lutely <i>not</i>."</p><p>"You <i>owe</i> me," Trevor retorts, stabbing a finger into the air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The G-Rated Con

**Author's Note:**

> Did I mention how much I love this game? Because I love this game. Even though there were bits that made me cringe and keep skipping the cinematic (you know which mission =_= … ergh). Despite everything, I developed this massive ... thing... over Michael. I love Michael. I almost expected Trevor to be my fav, but his intro sequence kinda put me off him for nearly half the game (I was kinda fond of Johnny D:). 
> 
> Anyway, for those precious readers who have no idea about this 'verse but are trying this fic anyway (thanks guys) - the characters are pretty well summed up in their character trailers:-
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bf38HiYPMiI 
> 
> And also the Mrs Philips mission: 
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CzIYA7R1nWs
> 
> Also the hilarious mission where Chinese triad members mistake Michael for Trevor's boyfriend (soulmate, they say HAHA) and kidnap him: 
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AzZ6tnuYYA0

I.

Dead silence settles over the kitchen for a breathless moment, then Michael explodes. " _No_. Abso-fucking-lutely _not_."

"You _owe_ me," Trevor retorts, stabbing a finger into the air.

"I owe you fuck all," Michael snarls, not backing down an inch, "We did that last score, didn't we? We're _square_ , Tee!"

" _We're_ square. You're not square with _Brad_."

"What the fuck does that have to do with you?"

"I spent all this time thinking that he was still alive-"

"That had nothing to do with me!"

"Actually, Dad," Tracey pipes up from the corner of the kitchen, where she's unhurriedly pouring herself something horrible and green from the suspicious container marked 'Super Omega-3 Wheat Grass Neural Supplement' in the 'fridge, "This is a great idea."

"You stay out of this, Trace," Michael snaps, narrowing his eyes.

"No, let's hear Tracey's opinion," Trevor purrs, sensing an advantage. "Why is it a great idea?"

"Uncle Trevor's your best friend, isn't he? You've always said so," Tracey continues, oblivious to Michael's stare of patent disbelief as she puts the container back in the 'fridge. "Best friends do this kind of thing for each other all the time. I pretended to be Ellie's girlfriend once when she wanted to come out to her grandparents. This is the same thing."

"Yes, Mikey," Trevor's voice turns syrupy. "Exactly the same thing."

"No, no, no no," Michael growls, "Trace, you and Ellie are _kids_. This sort of juvenile pretend-to-be-a-boyfriend shit is so fucking _high school_. Tee, I don't care if your mom wants a gay son. _You're_ not gay. I'm not gay. Just tell her the truth!"

"Who says I'm not gay? I'm equal opportunity," Trevor corrects. "Absolutely equal opportunity."

"That's so _modern_ of you, Uncle Trevor," Tracey gushes, and Michael eyes the cup of grass in her hand suspiciously. All that health shit, in Michael's opinion, has quite possibly fucked with the mental health of his wife and daughter: only his son has retained any modicum of real sanity in this house. 

"I'm very modern," Trevor agrees. "It's your Dad who's stuck in the last century."

"Hey-" Michael objects, but Tracey steams on, ignoring him.

"In fact," she adds, "Uncle Trevor, did you know that I want to be an actress?"

Trevor frowns a little. "Are you back on that TV show? Because-"

"Well," Tracey adds hastily, probably sensing the fact that Trevor might, quite possibly, be tempted to burn down the entire Fame or Shame studio if he knew, "Not anymore," she adds glibly, which is technically true, since the Fame or Shame season is officially over. "Anyway, I'm thinking, this could be a fun family thing to do! Dad and you can go and talk to your Mom, and I can be the adopted kid! I'm getting real good at acting. I won't let you down." 

"What," Michael yelps, horrified, even as Trevor declares, "That's a great idea!" 

" _Trace_ ," Michael snaps, " _Go upstairs_."

"If you're going to shoot at Uncle Trevor I'm not going to speak to you for a week," Tracey tells him loftily, "And the contractors only _just_ finished fixing the kitchen from when it last got shot up." She leaves in a huff, and Trevor starts to smirk, for a moment, before he frowns and looks around the kitchen, as though seeing it in a new light.

"This place got shot up?"

Michael shrugs. "Fucking Devin." 

"Wait, he sent a hit team _here_?" Trevor asks, incredulous, "And you didn't fucking _tell me_?"

"He's dead, Tee. Remember? Exploding car?"

Trevor's still scowling. "That was too fucking good for him. Fuck! You should have told me. I would have been a little more… creative… with the bit of 'us' time that we had. Fuck! Fuck you, Michael! You and your secrets! All that wasted time!"

Michael eyes Trevor warily as he paces, ranting wildly, hands clenching and unclenching. Brad used to call these moods 'the Fuse', and usually made himself scarce and/or confiscated anything remotely inflammable as he did so. Michael didn't have that luxury right now. 

"All right," he says soothingly, cutting in to an increasingly detailed description of what Trevor would have liked to do with a hive of bees and Devin's entrails, "I should'a told you. I had other things on my mind."

"Damn right you should," Trevor mutters, though the dangerous gleam in his eyes goes down a fraction. "See. This is the problem with you. Always keeping things from your friends. Always pushing your friends away. That's why you get into so much shit."

"I don't want to take this from you," Michael shoots back irritably, "Do _you_ have friends? Which one of your 'friends' isn't fucking terrified of you, huh?"

"Your kids aren't scared of me," Trevor retorts instantly. 

"I'm going to chalk that up to pre-conditioning," Michael mutters, although it's true. In fact, if he recalls-

"In fact," Trevor adds, triumphantly, "D'you remember what your little girl's first word was, huh?"

"Don't you _fucking_ -"

" _TRE-VOR_ , that's what!"

"Fuck you, Trevor! Brad said he thought it was an early indicator of a survivor's instinct!" Amanda had never let him live that down.

"Yeah?" Trevor bares his yellowing teeth, then his temper deflates all of a sudden, and it's so startling that Michael's fury also comes to a sudden, cold stop. "Brad's not here now, is he? Motherfucker."

"Yeah," Michael mutters, and then he sighs, irritably, as his conscience - or what's left of it - nudges him pointedly in the ribs. "Okay, Tee. Okay! One more favour. One more con. Then we're square. For real."

"For real," Trevor's eyes dart around the kitchen again, probably taking in the discreet, fresh paint daubs where the bullet holes were, and his expression darkens again. "Maybe we should go and blow up Devin's house first. Oh! Oh, and his office. All his offices. With semtex. Or something more kablooey. Big fireworks, high casualty count sort of kablooey-"

"And that would achieve what, exactly?"

"You see," Trevor snaps, "This is the problem with you, _Mikey_. All the fun's gone out of your soul. You've become a fucking middle aged fat yoga zombie."

" _Fun_? You call committing acts of domestic terrorism _fun_?" Michael sucks in a deep breath, and brings up his hands. "Never mind. Right. We're doing this. But we're not involving Trace. Or Jimmy, or Amanda. Just me, and you, and no… no… well, it's going to be a G-fucking-rated con, all right?"

"'G' all the way, my friend. What do you take me for?" Trevor asks, expansively, and even as Michael's trying to come up with a response to that question that even remotely does it sardonic justice, he adds, "But we probably need a kid to make it look legit."

"Seriously? You? A kid? Won't your mom be suspicious?"

"I'm thinking," Trevor adds, ignoring him, "Franklin."

"Oh no. Oh _no_. Besides, he'll never agree."

II.

Franklin, in fact, looks so incredibly blasé about the entire matter that Michael pulls him aside while Trevor ambles about in the old steel yard, muttering to himself beside his hick red truck. "Hey, Michael," Franklin greets him, as he follows him around the rusted old building. "What's keeping?"

They bump fists, and Michael clears his throat. "So, uh, did Trevor tell you what we were doing?"

"Sure," Franklin shrugs. "He said he needed to run a little something past his mom and wanted me to help out."

"Did he say _what_ exactly?"

"Well," Franklin eyes him, then he grins a little, "He said that the both of you were gonna pretend to be dating, and I was gonna pretend to be your adopted kid. I don't know how that's gonna fly, since we don't speak the same and all, but I could try a little less 'hood and a little more Vinewood in my shiz. Don't worry, Michael," Franklin adds earnestly, when Michael stares at him, "I ain't gonna fuck this up."

"You're not?"

"I done somethin' like this before," Franklin shrugs. "I had'a friend, Alisha, she was being bothered by a cousin of a friend of Lamar's gangbanger ex-buddy, so I pretended to be her boyfriend for a day or so. It's totally cool. I fooled her old man, even, he pulled a shotgun on me and chased me down the street, and I didn't even touch her none. We're good, man."

Michael internalises a groan. He keeps forgetting that Franklin's about the same age as his kids. Clearly, this juvenile idea is entirely logical to college-age kids and psychopaths.

"'Sides," Franklin adds comfortingly, mistaking Michael's pained look, "Don't worry. Them Chinese gangsters thought you two were dating, yeah? Shit, man, you two fight like a married couple already. Just… be yourself and she'll totally buy it."

This absolutely does nothing at all for his mood, and Michael sulks as they pile into Trevor's truck, Michael in the front passenger seat and Franklin balanced precariously in the back. He tunes out Trevor and Franklin, glaring at the road, but his self-imposed solitude lasts only up until they turn up onto the freeway. 

"Michael," Franklin breaks into his black mood, "Was your kid Tracey's first word really 'Trevor'?"

"'Course it was," Trevor says proudly, "She's always liked me best. I mean, look at _me_ , and look at her _parents_."

"It was," Michael sighs, without lifting his gaze, too depressed to prevaricate. "Lester and Brad were there too. We were planning a heist and Amanda had work to do so she left the kids with us."

Franklin's tone turned dubious. "She left the kids with a bunch of bank robbers?"

" _Hey_ ," Trevor scowls, though he watches the road. 

"Well, uh, Jimmy was… Lester used to be real good with occupying Jimmy with gadgets… I kinda blame him a little for how obsessed Jimmy is now with computers, actually - and Trace was a baby in a crib, she just used to sleep a lot," Michael mutters. "But that day, I don't know, she was crying and we couldn't figure out what was wrong, and Trevor here stuck his ugly face right into the crib and told her to 'shut the fuck up', I think his words were."

"You said that to a _baby_?" Franklin demands, horrified.

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" Trevor snorts. "Babies are people too. You just gotta be firm with them. She shut up."

"No she didn't," Michael recalls miserably, "She started _laughing_. And _then_ , to make things worse, she said her first word. 'Tre-vor'. Worst day of my life."

Franklin frowns. "Worse than being nearly made into burgers by the Triads?" 

"Worse." 

"Shit, man."

"I mean," Michael complains, feelingly, "I mean, I'm not a good father, all right? I know that. And I was worse in those days. I was still looking to get a big score, the next big score, I was running rackets, everything. My family wasn't my priority, not then. But I mean, I love that kid. Both kids. And her first word, I could have handled if it was 'Mom', maybe, like Jimmy, but-"

"'Dad' was her eighth word," Trevor notes smugly, "I was counting."

" _Fuck you, Trevor_ ," Michael growls, "Fuck you!"

"And so," Trevor adds to Franklin, ignoring Michael, "That's why I swore that I was going to slowly disembowel anyone who ever did her wrong. So if she starts going out with anyone who doesn't deserve her, meaning everyone," Trevor tells Michael, "You better fucking call me."

"She's got to have a life sometime," Franklin ventures.

"Eh? What? Were you looking at her?"

"No! No, man," Franklin says hurriedly, "'Sides, if we're running this gig, she's technically my sister from another mother, yeah?"

"Right." Trevor thinks this over, even as Michael chokes. "That's right."

"So, how're we doing this?" Franklin asks, as Michael wedges himself against the door and the seat and scowls at the asphalt flying past, hating his life. "We gonna have a cover story? 'Cos we're going to need to get all our stories straight. Like, uh, where we met. Things like that."

"She can smell lies from a mile off," Trevor confesses, a little gloomily. 

"Oh, that's just _fan_ -fucking- _tastic_ ," Michael mutters. "Maybe you should have told us this before roping us into this fiasco? Another Trevor Philips improvisation. I can't fucking _wait_." 

"Yeah? Why don't _you_ come up with a plan then, Great Leader?"

"All right!" Michael snaps. "All right. Here. We'll just tell her the truth about how we met. Uh - she knows about… the jobs?"

"She knows I haven't been on the long and narrow with the law."

"Right. So. We'll tell her the truth. How we met, how we became friends… er… more than friends. Whatever. _Moving along_. Uh, and as to where Franklin comes in, well, uh, we'll tell her the truth about that too. Met him trying to steal my car. Took him under our wing." 

"Usually kids get adopted when they're little," Franklin points out.

"Yeah, I know, but you're not going to be able to explain why your accent differs from ours, nor are you going to fake another accent convincingly. Uh-"

"Maybe youse sent me to board with my aunt after I tried to steal your car when I was little," Franklin suggests, "While the two of you, um…"

"Broke up," Michael adds, "And only just got back together," he continues sourly. "Should be enough truth in there to give us a lot of breathing space. Good?"

"It'll explain why the two of you bitch at each other all the time, sure." Franklin nods. 

"Good story, bro," Trevor decides, after thinking it over for a moment, "I like it. I think Mom will like it too."

"Er… right." Michael says dubiously, depressed all over again. He's beginning to wish he never agreed. "So, uh. What's… Mrs Philips like?" 

"She's great," Trevor says, turning to look him briefly and squarely in the eye. "She's an angel."

III.

Mrs Philips turns out to be more frightening than Michael could have dreamed. Years ago, when he and Brad had been in their cups, loudly drunk and Trevor-less in a bar after a heist that had gone well, they had ruminated as to the nature of Trevor's conception, and had concluded that Trevor had to have been the spawn of some sort of she-demon and a possessed goat. Mrs Philips would have sent both said she-demon and goat running for the fucking _hills_ with a single bat of her large, fake eyelashes or a toss of her bottle-red, haystack hair. A heavy set of gold chains hangs around her withered neck, and her intimidatingly large cleavage is barely held in check by a tiger print tank top.

That's not the worst of it though. Michael could deal with all of that. The worst was Mrs Philip's pinched face, the cruel line to her mouth, the narrow-eyed suspicion in her eyes, every inch of it reminding Michael of the time when he was six, in the orphanage, and was caught with his hand in a cookie jar by the rector's wife. He sucks in a strangled breath and tries not to start coughing. No wonder Trevor is so fucked up.

She shoots a laser-sharp glare at Michael, looking him slowly up and down, and even as Michael fights the urge to shuffle behind cover, she swings her stare onto Franklin, who, seemingly inured to frightening women, possibly because of his aunt, ambles forward, his hand stuck out. "Mrs Philips? I'm real glad to meet you, Miss. I'm Franklin. Real honour."

"Honour, huh?" Mrs Philips, surprisingly enough, seems to melt a fraction - she smiles toothily and almost… coquettishly as she shakes Franklin's hand. The skin on Michael's arms starts to crawl, but thankfully, Mrs Philips seems oblivious: her saw-toothed voice tries for saccharine but ends up like treacle. "Trevor, who are your friends?"

"Uh," Trevor squeaks, blushing - seriously blushing - and normally, Michael would have carefully framed this moment away to treasure in his mind for all eternity, but he's equally frozen. 

"Well ma'am, I'm not sure if Trevor told you about us," Franklin continues genially, "But he sure told us a lot about you."

"Oh he did, did he?" Mrs Philips, Michael decides faintly, rather reminds him of a cougar. Not the older-women-prowling-after-younger-men sort of cougar, but the deadly, disembowel-you-and-eat-your-liver sort. He feels a sudden and utterly unexpected burst of sympathy for Trevor that blindsides him into stepping forward to offer his hand.

"I guess there's no real way to say this clean," Michael tries his best smile. "Mrs Philips, I'm, ah, your son's boyfriend."

Just as Michael's congratulating himself on having unloaded that crock of bullshit without once laughing or cracking a grin, Mrs Philips eyes him over again, slowly, and then she snorts. "Oh really? When did the two of you meet?"

"Well er, Mrs Philips, I'm not sure how much you know about your son," Michael begins, and then it turns out easier than he thinks. He tells her about the first few heists, about Brad and Lester, their many, many fuck-ups before they started to get halfway professional, and at some point Mrs Philips banishes Trevor to head out to get some 'refreshments' and they sit on the couch, Franklin on one side and Michael on the other. 

"So where do you come in?" she asks Franklin.

"Uh, I guess I'm the charity case," Franklin shrugs.

"Don't you say that about yourself," Michael snaps instantly, and Mrs Philips smiles a slow and crooked grin. 

"An adopted son? I always did want a grandson." She grabs Franklin's hand, patting it, and to Franklin's credit, he doesn't run screaming for the hills. "I must say though, Mister Townley-"

"'Michael', please." 

"-that this is all rather hard to believe," she adds, with a dramatic sigh, but Michael's already instantly on his guard. "You see, I may not have known Trevor for a great deal of his life at present, because I was in… the Big House… but this trailer? It's _all_ Trevor." 

"We've uh, we've been going through a rough patch," Michael tries not to let any relief show in his voice. He's thought of this, thankfully. 

"How rough?"

"Oh man, Mrs Philips," Franklin cuts in dryly, "I was beginning to think that I was the mature person in this relationship. At one point they were trying to kill each other, m'not joking."

Michael glares surreptitiously at Franklin as Mrs Philips turns to regard him - this is probably _too_ close to the truth even for a scary old lady - but Mrs Philips starts to laugh, a frightening, cackling gargle. "Hah! I can believe that. I knew you were no good, Michael Townley. Just the sort of person Trevor would've run with."

"Hey," Michael growls, a touch irritated despite himself, "I'm trying to get better. I can't say the same for your son."

"If you don't live here, where do you live?"

"I've got a place up in Los Santos," Michael admits. "In the Hills."

"And Trevor visits?"

"Far too fucking often." The words slip out before he can catch them, and even as he grimaces, Mrs Philips cackles again. "We're… look, Mrs Philips, I'm sorry to say this, but me and Trevor, we're never going to be remotely normal," he says, taking a line and running with it, "We've been trying to keep Franklin out of the worst of it - or at least, I have - but I think all the therapy in the world isn't going to build us a set of white picket fences with a fluffy dog. But we can't quit each other," he adds, starting to run out of steam, and it's true, in a way. He can't excise Trevor out of his life any more than Trevor can pull away from Michael. 

The thought should be depressing, but in a way, it isn't, not any more - not since they pushed Devin in a trunk of a car over the edge of a cliff. He's resigned to this, to his fucked up life, his messed up family, his hang-ups and to therapy that doesn't work. He accepts it. Trevor's as much a part of him as the part of his soul that loves the pure rush from a successful heist, the pleasure he feels when handling a powerful rifle.

"I can handle myself," Franklin mutters, irritated, and Mrs Philips starts questioning Franklin, seemingly innocently, but her questions are lawyer-good, Michael knows. They're sharp. 

Franklin does seem to be an old hand at this, though, and Mrs Philips is cackling at his dressed-up description of the Chinese triads and the meat-packing factory when Trevor returns, so nervous that he nearly fumbles the bottles of champagne all over the floor. Michael gets up to help him with it, and they're gingerly trying to locate some remotely clean glasses around the back of the trailer as Trevor hisses, "How's it going?"

"How d'you think it's going?"

"No one's been stabbed yet. Looks fine to me," Trevor ventures, dubious, and Michael laughs.

"Have a little faith, Tee." He elbows Trevor in the ribs, and Trevor pushes him back instinctively, and they end up growling and shoving at each other like idiot kids instead of looking for the set of champagne glasses that Trevor apparently picked up out of a Lost meth lab a couple of months back, of all places. 

Trevor's managed to pin him against the side of the trailer by the time a dry voice adds from around the side, "Trevor, weren't we going to have some champagne?"

They freeze. Michael has his hands fisted in Trevor's collar, and Trevor has his clamped on his arms, and in the poor light, Michael doesn't need to look at how Franklin's smirking behind Mrs Philip's shoulder to know what it looks like. Trevor jerks away so quickly that Michael has to steady himself against the trailer for balance, and as he all but hops away to the boxes to take a look for glasses, Michael steps awkwardly over to help.

"No, not you. You come with us, or we're never going to get any champagne," Mrs Philips adds, and Michael follows her meekly back into the trailer, red-faced. 

The misunderstanding does seem to have bled out the rest of Mrs Philip's suspicions, however, and the rest of the evening goes well, especially when the champagne glasses are found and Michael decides that he's allowed to get fairly tipsy. Not drunk enough to start blurting out things that are actually true, of course, but tipsy enough to start laughing within strangling proximity of Trevor when Mrs Philips decides to regale them with stories of Baby Trevor. 

He does get dragged over by Trevor at one point, but even as he shoves at Trevor, annoyed, Mrs Philips drawls, "All right, boys, good night. Franklin, sweetie, how about you take me back to the motel?"

"Uh, sure, Mrs Philips," Franklin says quickly, and he helps her out of the trailer with one pointed backward glance at Michael that he muzzily frowns at in return. He's dimly aware that he's almost all the way onto Trevor's lap, but it doesn't seem as important as waiting, ears straining, until he hears Trevor's truck start up and pull away down the road.

"Did he just take my truck?" Trevor growls, squirming, and Michael holds him down automatically.

"Hey. He's 'our kid', isn't he? He probably borrows your truck all the time." Michael pauses as the hilarity of his statement slowly hits him, then he starts to laugh, even when Trevor tries and fails to coordinate a strangling grip on his neck, and then they're overbalancing onto the filthy ground of the trailer and Trevor has an elbow in his stomach and ouch. "Fuck you, Trevor," Michael snarls, squirming, shoving at Trevor's chin, and then it's Trevor's turn to laugh, deep and rumbling without the manic, brittle edge to it that Michael's used to.

"Well, we did it," Trevor flops against him, heavy and unmoving. "Thanks."

"You're," Michael blinks, slowly, "You're welcome. Anytime."

"You mean that?"

"Uh," Michael tries to walk back on his statement, but the champagne was nice and strong, and he's feeling mellow. "Sure. Though, your mom, she scares the hell out of me."

"Seems fine with Franklin."

"Have you met Franklin's aunt?"

"Yeah? What about her?"

"Never mind," Michael squirms again, a little irritably. " _Trevor_."

"Y'know," Trevor doesn't budge, "You're still my best friend. Even though I used to fucking hate your guts. I guess I don't anymore. You hate your own guts enough for the both of us."

"'Spose I do," Michael hiccups, and pushes at his shoulders. "Seriously, you're crushing my kidneys."

"Well, you shouldn't," Trevor mutters, ignoring him. "You've got a family. Jimmy isn't so bad, and Tracey's turned out fine, or as fine as she can be with you and Amanda as her parents. You've done what you wanted, haven't you? You always said you wanted to be able to give your kids everything that they wanted. You've done it. Why are you still such a sad old fuck?"

"Guilt, okay?" Michael growls, "I was guilty. Fucking guilty. Over you. Over Brad. I thought I got the both of you killed. It ate at me. The two of you were my friends for most of my life until that point. The best part of my life, even. I couldn't deal. I thought I could." 

Trevor makes a humming, thoughtful noise. "So why are you _still_ a sad fuck? Aren't you square with that too?"

"I guess it's been what I've been doing for years, and it's hard to give it up?"

"The problem with you, Michael," Trevor slurs, and grabs for the bottle of champagne. He gets some of it into his mouth, but the rest of it splashes over the ground and Michael's belly, making him yelp and struggle, "Is that you, you need to _lighten up_."

" _Me_ lighten up? _You_ need to stop… stop with your _everything_. The stews? Your one-man-vendetta against every single meth dealer this side of Los Santos? Your-"

"Hey, _I'm_ happy." Trevor interrupts. "You're the one in therapy."

"Oh, that's rich coming from the resident psychopath," Michael snarls, and then they're wrestling on the ground, ruining his suit, the bottle rolling off under the sink, and then- 

He isn't sure about this, or how it happens, but Trevor has his mouth against the side of his neck and a thigh between his legs and they're grinding against each other like teenagers, fucking hell, on the floor, at their age, if he doesn't catch something from _that_ he probably will from Trevor's teeth, and it doesn't explain the strangled moan he makes as he comes in his pants. Trevor growls, rumbling and low against his collar, muttering something broken by the wool of his suit, then his hips jerk as he rubs one out against Michael's leg.

Things get fuzzy again after that. He's sort of aware of being half-dragged to the sunken, stinking cot that Trevor calls a bed and being poured into it, and Trevor settles against his back, wedged against the wall, and he's asleep.

IV.

He wakes up in the morning feeling as though the entirety of Sandy Shores has shat down his throat, and Michael feels so sorry for himself that he hardly even registers where he is until he's managed to pry Trevor's arm off his waist. He stumbles into the kitchen in a sort of dazed horror, and he's washing his face by the sputtering tap when Mrs Philips saunters into the trailer.

"Good morning, Michael. Oh, don't bother standing to attention," she smirks, as he chokes on the water, "I came in earlier when you boys were asleep and went for a bit of a walk since the two of you seemed… occupied."

Oh. 

Shit.

Well. "Um," Michael says intelligently. He's too hung over to blush. Champagne has never really agreed with him. "Did you, uh, did you get back to the motel safe?"

"Oh yes. Franklin is quite a gentleman. Raised well." 

"Ah, well, that's more because he's a good kid, rather than us," Michael admits feelingly, and Mrs Philips actually grins at him, toothily. It's a look that's just as frightening in the early morning sunshine as it was in the late evening dusk, and he tries not to shrink back against the sink. "I'm, ah, I'm a bit of a, let me get cleaned up and I can drive you into Los Santos if you like."

"That's very sweet of you to offer, dear," Mrs Philips settles onto the couch, "But I think I'm probably going to hang around Sandy Shores for a while more, then head up North to visit some old friends." The casual way she says 'friends' reminds Michael of Trevor's idea of 'visiting friends', and he tries not to grimace.

"All right," he says finally, dubiously, even as his phone buzzes. It's Franklin, asking politely if he's still alive, and Michael notices two messages from Amanda, demanding to know where the hell he's been overnight, and one from Tracey, wishing him 'luck'. He shuts it off and slips the phone back into his pocket, and finds Mrs Philips watching him. "I'm… going to head into town, then," he says lamely. "Business."

"Sure," she smiles, and this time it's that disembowelling-cougar smile, and Michael retreats awkwardly into Trevor's room, shaking him awake. 

"Hey," he hisses, and steps back as Trevor flails awake. "Your mom's here."

"She's wha-" Michael clamps a hand over Trevor's mouth, and holds it there until Trevor settles, his eyes narrowing. 

"I've got to go, Tee. You know I can't stay in Sandy Shores," Michael raises his voice a fraction, "Catch you later, all right?"

"Yeah," Trevor blinks, and there's such a rabbity look of panic on his face that Michael relents a little.

"Hey," he offers, "But if you need me to stay, I'll stay." 

"No, that's quite all right, Michael," Mrs Philips calls from the kitchen, and Trevor flinches. "Trevor and I need to have a nice, long talk."

Michael arches his eyebrows at Trevor, who stares at him for a long moment, then he shoves Michael towards the door, and reluctantly, Michael skulks out of the trailer. He jacks a car, buys the most acceptable clothes at the nearest clothes store, checks into a motel and showers off, then just as he's getting back into the stolen sedan, he gets another prod of conscience.

With a sigh, he turns the car back to the trailer, though he parks a street back and takes a walk instead, wondering if he should have at least brought a pistol. Or his rifle. Or something. He's trailing around the bush, wondering if he should just stride right back in, when Trevor and Mrs Philips come around the side of a derelict stack of broken-down old flats and almost walk right into him.

"Oh, er," Michael blinks, as they stare, then he goes for the truth, "Just, was just going to check on Trevor."

"He's a grown boy," Mrs Philips drawls, her eyes going from cautious to amused all in a flash.

"Yeah," Michael scrambles a little and settles for honesty, "But this was really important to him, so I wanted to see it right."

Trevor continues to stare, in what Brad used to call his disembowel-or-set-fire-to cognitive mode, but Mrs Philips' seamed face suddenly softens, and she marches over, patting his arm. "I think you're a good boy after all, Michael Townley. Maybe not a good person," she adds, rather illogically, "But a good boy. I'm glad that you met my son."

"It's been an experience," Michael admits honestly, and she cackles. 

"I can imagine. Well. I'll leave the two of you to it. Trevor, I'm heading upstate. Don't fucking forget to write this time, you ungrateful child. Michael, sweetie, it's a pleasure."

She sashays over to the main street, where a cab's already pulling up - called earlier, perhaps - gets in, and accelerates out of sight. Michael blinks, slowly, then shoves his hands into the secondhand jeans. "Funny world," he says finally, out of nothing else to say.

"Right," Trevor adds, after a long pause, then he exhales. "Was a near thing, there. She was trying to get me to admit that it was a set up."

"Did you?"

Trevor gives him a horrible grimace. "Said it was a near thing, didn't I? Fuck. Then you show up. Thank-fucking-Christ."

"Nick of time. I'm that good." Michael notes, though there isn't anything but a touch of relief in his tone as he gingerly claps Trevor's arm. "So. We square?"

"We're square." Trevor concedes, narrowing his eyes. He tilts his head, for a moment, and Michael sets his teeth, almost expecting Trevor to say something about last night, about the floor, or the bed, but in the end, he rolls his shoulders, and hooks his thumbs into the hem of his cargo pants. "We're square," he repeats, in a deeper voice, and smirks at him. "Say 'hi' to your therapist for me."

"Fuck you, Tee," Michael retorts, with a snort, and heads back over to the sedan.

"Hey," Trevor calls at him, "I mean it about Tracey's boyfriends! Or girlfriends! You better fucking call me!"

Michael shakes his head, raising his hand in a half-wave before settling into the car and starting it up. It's going to be a long drive back to Los Santos, and somehow, despite the mess of the last day, the world seems to have settled into something a touch closer to something right.


End file.
